Wednesday, April 17, 2002
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Wednesday, April 17, 2002 |
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Taking Cinderella to the ball By
SALLIES SATTERTHWAITE You remember the story of my college roommate, Jackie, she of the raven hair (gift of a Shawnee ancestor) and rich soprano voice; married a seminary student who became a chaplain at Brown, had two children, divorced in the troublous 1960s. After raising the kids alone, she became an advocate for the voiceless: migrant workers, minorities, the homeless. With characteristic disregard for material things, she ignored life's little necessities like health insurance and provision for her old age. Made a series of bad choices, at times was all but homeless herself, and by the time we reconnected after 30 years, her life was in a spiral of depression, made worse by faltering health. I worried over her again as I did when we were roommates. Didn,t see her often, or long, so relied on letters and the telephone. Our conversations usually ended with me depressed, her tremulous plea echoing long after we hung up "Pray for me, Sallie. I really mean it." I urged her to come visit, told her this is an easy place to live (although not famous for spirituality) and I have room I could take care of her. But I knew she'd never leave the New Jersey town where her daughter, herself in a troubled marriage, lives. So when she called in January and announced she was coming to visit for a few days, thanks to a gift from her son, my mind began to whirl. She sounded upbeat, her laugh pure music what had changed? I attributed her recovery to effective medicine. "No, no," she declared. "Thank God. He took awhile, but has at last answered prayer." I worried that she'd find my life too materialistic it is, believe me and Peachtree City too worldly. The evening she was to arrive, I had my heart set on going to a Delta pilot's retirement party. How strong would she be? Dave was off boating with friends could I cope alone if this broken woman reverted to deep depression? I fretted in vain. She was definitely no longer depressed. I'm not into pop-psychology, but before it was over, I began thinking of what I'd heard about the other half of manic-depression, the euphoric upswings. Should have known from the moment Delta flight 1199,s carousel was cleared, and no sign of Jack, that things were going to be interesting. Delta won't tell you who was or was not on a given flight, of course, and, knowing she did not have a cell phone, I hadn't brought mine. I was frantic. Called my own answering machine; no message. Stupidly, I had not brought her phone number either and didn't want to drive all the way home, not knowing where she was. I sought help from the pleasant young thing at Delta's information desk. She had Jack paged, but there was no response. "I don,t know what to do," I pled. "She's an older woman," (all of four years older than me) "and unaccustomed to travel. She had to be on that airplane." Two hours after flight 1199 had landed, Jackie-less, the right question finally came to me: "When's your next flight due in from Philadelphia?" "It just landed," came the reply. Ah, I thought, she has to be on it, and I resumed pacing from carousel to escalator. Then, suddenly, there she was, looking like an Estonian refugee with a blue cotton kerchief on her head, watching the bags sliding onto the wrong carousel. "Jack! What happened?" I cried, embracing her. "Oh, Sal, they thought I was a terrorist!" Looking around nervously, I hushed her until she could pour out her story less publicly. The two-hours-early rule was still in place, and she'd been up since 5 to make the flight. After her daughter dropped her at the airport, she got a cup of coffee and sat down to read a magazine. No, not "read"; she absorbs. She gets every word she reads, every word she hears, often capturing them on a stack of notes she seems always to have in hand. The short of it is that she missed flight 1099. She was so involved in her reading that she never heard them call the flight, nor her name. And when the number of bags checked onto 1199 didn,t match the number of passengers, they had to unload the hold. They had already confiscated a small pair of scissors. It's a wonder she was out of jail, much less out of Philadelphia. Under the circumstances, Delta was gracious with her and put her on the next flight. And the story made for delicious retelling, on my part, at the party that evening. Oh, yes, we went. I thought she wouldn't be interested, but she was eager to go, and it was a wonderful party. Ted Thomas, family and friends are among the most loving, close-knit of any I know; I am so grateful to be among them. And Jackie, a stranger, was warmly welcomed to this world, so very different from hers, and enjoyed it tremendously. There was a small band - trumpet, guitar, piano, and bass - and it was all she could do not to jump up and sing with them as she had done to earn food money as a college student. She got into deep conversations with people I don't even know, and relished the country club atmosphere. Asked me to get her an ale, and drank every bit of it. Maybe a tad tipsy, she laughed and glowed, and when I took her home, I felt like I had attended the ball with Cinderella. More another time. |
